


To the End

by H3llcat



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Enemies to Lovers, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, the Knights of Ren aren't as scary as they seem, there is no actual cannibalism in this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-04-30 13:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14497794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/H3llcat/pseuds/H3llcat
Summary: When Hux is kidnapped by a widely feared, rival survivor group, he's certain he'll die to protect his own people's whereabouts. That is, until the group's leader takes an interest in him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note: if you’re concerned about any of the topics mentioned in this chapter popping up in the future, please read the end note for clarification! <3

* * *

Everything had happened so fast. Hux had been sitting in his sun warmed kitchen nook, chipped mug of tea steaming on the table before him, iPad in hand to keep up on the world’s news. He’d been scrolling through an article on dwindling northern white rhino populations, wondering idly if it was too grim a subject to bring up to his class on monday morning, when the pounding came at his door. It was forceful, insistent, gruff male voices yelled for him to open up, that it was the National Guard. He was instructed to evacuate. Immediately. Told that it wasn’t safe there anymore. Grab essentials only... and leave. Birds had been chirping sweetly from the branches of the oak in his front yard as Hux watched the small team of armed, armored men lope across his manicured lawn, stomping over his petunias, to deliver the same grim message to his neighbors.

Normally Hux wouldn’t have been a man to spook easily. He faced an army of five-year-olds daily, he was confident, then, that he would laugh in the face of most dangers. But some primitive instinct buried deep within him prompted him to action, drawing on knowledge born from a forced stint in the Boy Scouts to fill a duffle bag with a couple changes of clothes, a flashlight, batteries, the few canned goods he kept in his pantry. The National Guard hadn’t told him _why_ it was unsafe to stay, but he had put together a fairly well rounded kit that would come in handy in a myriad of emergency situations. He loaded it up into his sedan and left.

Nothing had really seemed amiss for a while. Traffic was heavy with people as confused as he was, driving in every which direction as they hadn’t been given clear instruction as to where or what they were trying to escape from, but otherwise everything appeared normal enough. He drove for hours, anxiety creeping back into his peripherals as he watched his gas meter drop lower and lower. He’d considered turning back, going home, writing the whole day off as some sort of strange, unprecedented government drill for natural disasters. If that was the case, they failed terribly, inspiring chaos rather than safety; he’d smiled with his pride as he recalled the perfect, neat line his students assembled as he led them from the school during fire drills.

His hope for a false alarm came crashing down when he hit a gridlock on the I-59 S. People around him were getting out of their cars, straining to see above the parking lot that the interstate had become. Left and right cars were clearly abandoned, doors left open, items deemed non-essential littering the asphalt as if they’d been sorted through in a hurry.

“Excuse me!” He’d reached out to grab the arm of a man ushering his family quickly between the maze of vehicles. “Do you know what’s going on?”

The man had turned wide eyes to Hux, expression both distant and fearful. His lips moved but no words had come out at first, struggling around the syllables. “Zombies,” he finally managed in a hoarse murmur.

The single, fantastical word offered up as an explanation should have made Hux laugh. Hux who had been certain he would never face something more terrifying than twenty children armed with glitter glue. Hux who took pleasure in picking apart the illogical aspects of Hogwarts. Hux who had ruined the myth of the Tooth Fairy for all of his schoolyard friends. And yet, dread settled over him at the thought of something he had never before considered a possibility outside of comic books and overrated TV shows.

He didn’t hear the birds sing much after that.

* * *

“I’m going to lead them off,” Hux whispers, narrowing his eyes slightly to preemptively shut Phasma up as she opens her mouth to protest.

Outside of the tiny tool shed their supply team has holed up in, guttural moans sound as the walkers scrape by, miraculously still oblivious to their presence. It had been foolish to think they could sneak around the herd for one more mad dash into town, the group trapped now as hundreds, maybe thousands—it’s impossible to tell through the small, clouded window—trap them in their hiding spot.

He holds up the keys to their SUV as five sets of eyes look to him like he’s crazy. “I’ll slip out the back door to make it to the car. The sound will draw them away. As soon as they’ve moved past, get yourselves back to camp. Pack up the caravan and… and if I’m not back by the time you’re done, go ahead without me. We can’t stay here anymore, this is the second herd we’ve come across. A town nearby must have been hit hard.” He turns to Phasma, meeting her gaze evenly as she shuffles her feet, clearly resisting the urge to question his decisions.

Their ragtag group had been formed in the early days of the epidemic, strays banding together for strength in numbers as they learned the rules of the new world they found themselves thrust into. Somehow Hux had unofficially been appointed their leader if only for his ability to command attention, nevermind that it was a skill learned to keep his kindergarten students focused on the tasks he assigned. That didn’t seem to matter to his people. They trusted him, _trust_ him, completely, and so far he likes to think he’s done alright by them.

“Fine,” Phasma finally concedes. She shoulders her pack, picks up her infamous, nail studded baseball bat, and fixes a look of determination upon her angular face. “But if you don’t come back, I’ll hunt down your walker-self and kill you again.”

A weak smile quirks up the corner of Hux’s lips as he pulls on his own backpack, drawing his long hunting knife from its sheath on his thigh as he prepares for his run for their vehicle. “I’d appreciate that, actually. But, Phas… remember the plan. Head south. Get them to New Orleans. Mitaka’s uncle has a boat in the Gulf, it’s the best chance—“

“You’ll be leading us there yourself, General.”

Usually he hated the nickname, his father’s voice immediately chiming in the back of his head that he hasn’t earned such a title, maybe if he’d enlisted in the military as was the original plan… But, now, it serves as reassurance and motivation, comfort in the familiarity and fondness of it. He even returns her mock salute.

He doesn’t look back, not wanting to lose his nerve, as he pushes open the rickety door and closes it behind him. He sneaks down the slope at the edge of the road, as far from the walkers as he can manage without ducking beyond the tree line, and hurries, hunched and quiet towards where they had parked at the edge of town. He’s quick in taking down any walkers in his path, the spin and stab of his knife into gummy eye sockets and behind decaying ears a practiced motion. They go down without a sound or a struggle, he pulls his knife free, and continues on his way.

It had been difficult, at first, to kill these things that look just a little too human to be able to fully make the disconnect in his head. They’d come at him, arms extended greedily, mouths gaping, feet shuffling in clumsy, slow strides and he wouldn’t see a monster but rather someone’s grandmother, someone’s brother, a mother or a father, a firefighter, a doctor… a teacher. He had seen them as meaning something to someone out there. He had thought about their families searching for them, hopeful they were still alive. Each shot to their heads, each nauseating crunch of a blade through a cracked skull hit him hard and personal. But this new world has a way of hardening those strong enough to survive so far in it, and he’s long since stopped even seeing their faces. They aren’t who they once were, he’s certain of that. They’re just dumb, mindless beasts with only one instinctual goal in mind: to feed.

He gets in the car and tosses his pack into the backseat. The mass of walkers is already somewhat headed slowly in his direction, but honking the horn focuses their attention and they all turn, synchronized, towards the vehicle. Aimless shuffling speeds up as fast as they’re able (which, mercifully, is not very fast), and he waits until he hears the first scratches at the back window before taking off. He drives some distance ahead of them, stops to let them catch up, and drives off again, laying on the horn each time it looks like he’s losing their interest. It’s a slow process, more time consuming than he would have liked and frankly a waste of gas, but it’s safer than trying to lead them away on foot.

He drives for an hour, a repeated pattern at a glacial pace of driving, stopping, waiting, repeat. They’re far enough away now that the majority of the walkers has been lured out of town to allow his supply team time to get away unscathed. He glances over his shoulder to check the progress of the herd swarming towards him, enough distance between them that he should be able to turn off an unpaved road up ahead and loop back around to their camp to meet up with the rest of the group before they move on.

He straightens back up in his seat and is reaching for the gearshift when suddenly his door is flung open and he feels himself being yanked roughly out. At first he fears he has mistimed the herd’s progress, that they caught up and now he’s going to be torn to shreds by hungry teeth and rotting fingers. But no bite comes and the movements are too coordinated, fast and sure, to be one of the walkers.

He whips his head around to see who has him, but only catches a flutter of black fabric before a blindfold is secured over his eyes, catching his hair painfully in the hastily tied knot. He’s dragged away from his SUV, away from supplies they had painstakingly collected, his best guess that he’s being taken into the woods.

Hux doesn’t bother fighting. He’d given away his food rations the last couple of days to those he deemed more in need which has left him considerably weakened, and the grip holding his arms behind his back is undeniably strong. No, fighting wouldn’t serve except to exhaust him. Instead he zeroes in on details he can pick up, trying to keep track of which direction he’s being taken, noting the feel of the terrain beneath his boots. He can escape later.

He focuses next on the voices he hears. They’re muffled but he can pick out three distinct people, all male and sounding to be roughly his age. They don’t make much sense, rambling phrases again and again about how thrilled Supreme Leader will be with their find, making far more noise than Hux ever would have allowed from his own group while traipsing through the forest. It’s a surefire way to draw attention to themselves and end up with walker teeth embedded in their skin... or a bullet to the head.

When all of this first went down, the walkers were the enemy. They were new and frightening, something no one knew how to deal with. But as the months wore on and resources began to dwindle, the status quo changed. Walkers were predictable, at least, even if their numbers continued to increase. They needed to feed. They were slow. They were noisy. They were, most importantly, easy to take down once humanity had learned how. People, on the other hand, were far more complex. They needed food, shelter, ammunition, they had attachments, emotions, were capable of scheming. There was no government, no law, any common sense of decency slipping away. It became nearly impossible to tell who could be trusted as groups warred with one another for coveted territory like schools, hospitals, and prisons. Humans killed humans for food, clean water, vehicles, guns. At least the walkers were only out for their blood; they had long since stopped being the real threat in all of this. This is proven to Hux now as his mission was thwarted not by the dead but by the living.

They walk until Hux’s legs ache from the quick, stumbling pace he’s pushed along at, his nose twitching as they slow and stop, first noticing the scent of cooking meat crackling over a fire. That’s something he hadn’t smelled in a very long time, used to cold, processed chili and overly sweet fruits spooned out of cans, and is ashamed at the way his stomach gurgles in response. There are other shuffling sounds around him, signs of life in new voices murmuring, the scratch of a zipper and nylon sliding against nylon as a tent flap opens and flutters closed, heavy booted steps crunching dried leaves. He can’t distinguish them anymore, has lost count of how many there are, but one thing is certain: they’re moving towards him.

“Supreme Leader,” the one holding his arms behind his back croons as the heaviest steps stop directly in front of Hux. “We brought you a gift.”

“Are you proud?” One to his right asks, breathy and hopeful.

“You’ve done well,” a deeper voice replies, condescending, but Hux can feel the relief of his captors palpable in the air. “Remove his blindfold.”

The rough fabric is pulled away from his eyes, taking a few strands of his hair with it as they hadn’t bothered to untie the knot first. His gaze locks on the man before him, only a few inches taller than he is but twice his size, bulky and thickly muscled. He has dark, wavy hair in desperate need of a wash, but his face is obscured by a cheap Halloween mask, shiny and black with a grill at the front and domed over his eyes, secured around the back of his head with a thick band of elastic. There’s a crude brand between his collar bones, a big cross seared into his skin, the scar a charcoal black.

Heart hammering in his chest, Hux’s gaze darts around to the others. There’s seven total in the camp, tall, imposing figures in tattered black clothing. They all wear masks no doubt pilfered from an abandoned party store; he recognizes Michael Meyers, Scream, there’s a skeleton, a cracked porcelain doll, a politician, and a clown. And they all have the same brand visible on slips of bare skin.

“The Knights of Ren.” He lifts his head a little higher and tries to infuse his tone with the irritation that makes his students quake, but it’s he that trembles as he looks back up at the man in front of him, the one in the black mask they had been referring to as ‘Supreme Leader.’

The Knights of Ren are widely feared in this territory. They’re known to be ruthless, chaotic, violent, rumored to raid camps in the middle of the night, slaughtering indiscriminately to stock their own supplies or merely to amuse themselves. There’s whispers of heinous torture, of locking unsuspecting survivors in burning buildings while their howling laughter carries over the rumbling of their salvaged motorcycles. It’s been said that they have an impressive arsenal of military grade weapons as well as horrors of their own creation that put Phasma’s nail spiked bat to shame. But, first and foremost, the band of masked, branded figures are known to be cannibals. The smell of the meat suddenly makes Hux’s stomach roll, nauseous.

“So you’ve heard of us.” The man in front of him sounds pleased through the plastic of his mask.

“Yes, though I don’t see why I’ve been brought here. Aren’t I too much on the lean side to make a decent meal?”

The leader barks a laugh that makes Hux momentarily forget his fear, brows knitting fast together, indignant, an angry flush creeping up the back of his neck.

“Maybe you’d be better suited for... companionship.”

Hux’s scowl melts in an instant, remembering his place, as he feels the color drain from his cheeks. “Ah, I hadn’t heard _rape_ listed in your repertoire before.” They’d come across hostile groups before, those willing to use force to keep their own people afloat, but this cruelty for cruelty’s sake is new, making his blood run cold.

“Repertoire,” the Supreme Leader repeats, trying the weight of it on his own tongue. “Listen to you with your fancy words.” He drags his rough, split knuckles across Hux’s cheek, the gesture nearly admiring. “Bring him to my tent and then tell me why you really brought him here,” he demands of the Knights as he takes a step back.

Hux sees one of the hulking men overturn a duffle bag, supplies stolen from his now abandoned SUV spilling out, as he’s dragged away by another.

* * *

He’s left alone for some time, wrists bound to one of the tent’s supports after they relieved him of the knife strapped to his thigh and the pistol at his hip. Frustrated, he strains to pick up bits of conversation outside the tent, anything to get a better sense of what he’s dealing with. It’s difficult through the nylon and with their voices still muffled by masks, but he’s able to discern a few phrases here and there. For a lot of murderous cannibals, they don’t seem much different than his own group. He hears murmurs of needing to find more ammo, discussion of where to move next, repairs they need to make on their motorcycles. Nothing incriminating or that Hux could use to his advantage. Instead, he summons his patience through his frayed nerves and waits. They have to sleep at some point. That’s when he can make his move to escape.

He occupies himself by glancing around the tent. It’s small, practical, the floor covered in a thin layer of dusty boot prints. There’s a sleeping bag rumpled on the floor, half open to reveal the flannel lining, clean and new; Hux idly wonders who was murdered so the man could sleep comfortably. There’s a backpack on the floor, dingy and covered in small rips and tears, a couple muddied shirts piled on top. He’s not sure what he expected: human skulls littering the floor, cages of people waiting to be slaughtered, something a little more obvious. There’s not even any weapons in here, nothing he could use later to fight his way free.

The flap to the tent finally opens and the Supreme Leader steps in. He kneels before Hux, a plate in hand laden with thick portions of pink meat. Hux has to remind his traitorous stomach that he could soon be meeting the same fate, roasted above a campfire and served up to the Knights of Ren.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He finally snaps when the other man does nothing but stare at him through the domed plastic of the mask.

“You should eat something.”

The plate is extended out towards him and Hux throws his head back so fast he feels a terrible crack in his neck, fearing it’ll be force fed to him. “I’ve never developed the taste for human,” he spits the words, regret settling in as he remembers he certainly doesn’t have the upper hand here.

“It tastes like pork.” The man lifts a broad shoulder in a casual shrug and settles cross legged in front of him. He whips his mask off, a flair for the dramatic it would seem, and begins eating the cuts himself.

He is not unattractive, as Hux realizes he had assumed he would be. Not conventionally handsome either, but his features are interesting and a constellation of moles guides his attention between the curves of his bone structure. His lips are full, settling naturally into a pout, and the brown of his eyes is warm in a way that’s almost endearing. Hux cuts that train of thought off before he can get carried away—handsome or not, the man sitting before him is a monster.

“The world is not so bad off to drive you to such measures. Your utter lack of humanity is what’s wrong—“

“I can’t believe even someone who uses words like ‘repertoire’ fell for it.”

“I… excuse me?”

“Chill out, Red, it’s just some rabbits we shot. We’re not cannibals. It makes a good story though, doesn’t it?” His grin can only be described as wolffish, nearly mocking, and it sends a splotchy blush once more into Hux’s cheeks. “If people think we’re gonna eat ‘em, they’re more likely to leave us the fuck alone. Smart, right?”

As loathe as Hux is to admit it, it _is_. Other survivor groups whisper about the Knights of Ren, comparing sightings, tracking them on maps, so they can steer clear. It leaves towns wide open and more than one secure base has been abandoned because the Knights were rumored to be headed their way. It’s genius, actually, and Hux concedes with a hum.

“And what of the other stories? Burning innocents alive, slaughtering entire camps while they sleep?”

At this, the man actually has the nerve to laugh. Hux is fuming. “Don’t act so high and mighty, Red. I’m sure your hands aren’t as clean as you’d like me to think.” He doesn’t confirm nor deny the claims which does nothing to soothe Hux’s anxiety.

“So why am I here then?” He changes the subject. “If I’m not to be your next meal, I suppose I should be on my way.”

“You had a lot of supplies in your car.”

The observation sets Hux’s nerves on edge, bristling preemptively. “Yes, I’m rather efficient.”

“You didn’t do that all yourself. You’re going to take us to your group.”

Hux’s breaths are ragged pulls from his lungs as this demand sets in, the words turning themselves over and over in his head. The last two years he has fought tooth and nail to keep his group from harm. He’s led them, helped provide for them, eased the passing of some, welcomed others... to think that now he is expected to bring violent deaths to their doorstep… no.

He’s being manipulated, he’s certain of it. The offer of food, the relatively gentle treatment he’s thus far received; he’ll be sweet talked, reasoned with, anything to get what the Knights desire. What miniscule trust that had been built up between them disintegrates in an instant. He once again eyes the meat warily. “I don’t have a group, I’ve been on my own.”

“Don’t lie to me, Red.”

“Hux.” Panic makes him snap, jaw clenching and unclenching as he berates himself for offering up any sort of personal information. “My name is Hux, not _Red_. I’m not a dog.”

“Hux. Like Madonna or Prince or something?” The man hums thoughtfully as he licks the grease from the meat off his thick fingers. “I’m Kylo Ren.”

“You named your group after yourself? That’s rather egocentric.”

“You think so? I thought it had a nice ring to it. And what do you call your group, _Hux_?” The name drips poisonous from his fat, stupid lips, again flashing that grin that reminds Hux of the villains in the storybooks he used to read to his students. The Big Bad Wolf indeed.

“I told you—”

“Look, I like you. I’m willing to make you a deal. Take us to your group, convince them to cooperate and hand over your supplies—guns, ammo, food, first aid—and we won’t hurt them or you.”

There it is, he’s trying to cut a deal as Hux suspected he would. But he doesn’t believe him, not for an instant, not when it relates to the safety of his people. There’s too many stories about the Knights, too many witnesses to the horrors they leave in their wake, he doesn’t trust—he _can’t_ trust—that Ren’s end of the deal would be upheld.

“And if I refuse? You can’t very well find them without my cooperation. In fact, you might not be able to find them _with_ my cooperation. They’re long gone by now, I assume.” He hopes they are anyways, prays to a god he never really believed in despite years in Catholic schools that Phasma followed his instructions, packed up their cars, and left.

The good humor falls from Ren’s face in an instant, odd features instead settling into a forced, still calm. “What?”

“They went on without me. I was leading away a herd so they could leave safely. That’s when your people found me. There’s no telling where they are now.” Hux mirrors his earlier flippant shrug.

Ren slams his palm down hard beside Hux’s knee, fingers flexing, nails digging into the dirty floor, as if he’d much rather have them wrapped around a pale throat.

“Bullshit!” He sits back and Hux watches his nostrils flare with a deep, grounding breath. “That’s bullshit. Your car was full of supplies. You’re clean, your weapons are good… there’s no way someone this put together wouldn’t have a plan. Where are they going?”

Hux swallows down the lump in his throat, masking his spike of fear from the outburst with a roll of his eyes. “Getting angry won’t change the fact that I don’t know. We had to get out in a hurry, there wasn’t the time to strategize.”

“No plan was ever discussed? You were wandering aimlessly?” Frantic disbelief curls plump lips into a quivering frown.

“That’s why we stayed fully stocked. We never knew where we’d end up next. We would make camp and stay there until it became unsafe, and then we would drive until we found somewhere else to settle down. Schools, apartment buildings, that sort of thing. It was my understanding that this is a common strategy. If you know of any secure locations nearby, you may want to check there. Otherwise, I’m afraid I can be of no help.” Hux is proud of himself for the steadiness of his own voice as he lies, lifting his chin a little for good measure. He doesn’t care what happens to him at this point as long as the group stays safe. He’ll take the secret of the boat in New Orleans to his grave. Perhaps more literally than he would like.

They never settled down in obvious locations such as the ones Hux listed, but hopefully it would send the Knights on a goose chase long enough for his group to get well out of this territory. Taking prime locations only invited conflict which they learned early on was better to avoid. Instead they camped in the woods where they wouldn’t be seen as a threat to other survivors, taking shifts during sleeping hours to watch over the group. It was easier to pick off a few stray walkers than to counter a coordinated, planned attack. They could handle it, certainly, Hux’s group consisted mainly of young to middle aged adults in peak health. They all learned how to shoot a gun, how to wield found objects as weapons. They learned how to track, scavenge, and move on silent steps. Everyone contributed a more specialized skill ranging from sharpshooting to first aid to knowledge of edible plants. They were an organized, well oiled machine. But, still, it wasn’t worth the potential losses to engage in combat unnecessarily.

“They went on without you?”

“Yes,” Hux breathes the answer, heart thudding against his ribcage as he waits to see belief replace skepticism in Ren’s eyes.

Ren throws his plate across the tent, greasy meat clinging to bright blue nylon before he pulls to his feet and hunches back out of the tent. Hux hears him order the Knights to pack up camp, telling them nothing more than they’re moving out. Even without explanation, there’s hurried movement as his command is obeyed.

Their dynamic is interesting, he’s realizing, a contrast to his own. Hux’s people trust him entirely, but even then they ask for clarification and explanation which they’re fairly owed. The Knights are little more than simpering children desperate for Ren’s approval, unquestioning in their obedience. They outnumber him, they seem able to hold their own, and yet he is hailed as a king.

A few minutes pass before Hux is pulled from the tent by the Knight in the Scream mask, pushed back outside and tied to a tree where he is out of the way as they disassemble their tents, but near enough that they can keep an eye on him.

It also affords him a look at how they organize themselves, their camp a circle of tents with a neat fire pit still smoking in the middle. They’re efficient and quick as they work, breaking down camp having been mastered as a science, the Knights seemingly unhindered by the limited vision offered by their masks. Three disassemble tents, the other three working to repack their bags. Kylo Ren contributes as weapons wrangler, a few rifles slung over each shoulder, knives in his hands that he distributes among the waiting packs.

Just outside of camp, there are six motorcycles of varying styles and conditions in an uneven row and a battered Jeep parked behind them. The motorcycles seem silly at first glance, aesthetic at best. But, as he watches one of the Knights fill gas tanks with a red plastic canister, the genius of it hits him. Motorcycles use less fuel, it’s less they have to scavenge. It’s a problem Hux’s group has dealt with numerous times with their caravan of five cars, having to pick their way through abandoned, gridlocked highways to check cars for remaining fuel. It’s a long process, a slow process, that they’ve lost hours of time to. Plus, motorcycles are faster, making scouting ahead a more viable strategy. They could zip around obstacles to find drivable paths, to check for dangers ahead. Even the Jeep is a smart choice, able to maneuver its way over terrain that ordinary cars could not.

For a group that is known to be chaos defined, the Knights of Ren appear to have a thoughtful system in place.

Maybe they’re ex-military, Hux considers as he watches broad, muscled shoulders strain against black clothing in various states of tatteredness. That would explain the efficiency, the obedience… though the cannibalistic, violent tendencies remain a mystery. Maybe they were already unhinged, plagued by memories of war, a zombie apocalypse enough to push them over the edge. Or, maybe, they were ordinary men who jumped at the opportunity for ruthlessness. The second option runs an uneasy shudder down his spine.

“Up with you.”

Hux is snapped from his thoughts by Ren’s voice, muffled once more by his mask. “Come again?” He blinks up at him, squinting against the brightness framing him like a misleading halo.

“Stand up. You’re going to be riding with me.” Ren stoops down to untie the rope bindings and tugs Hux to his feet.

“I’m…?”

“Riding with me.”

“You’re taking me with you?” He isn’t sure what he expected. To be left tied to the tree with no way to fight off hungry walkers, to be released, murdered maybe… but being brought along with the Knights never once crossed his mind. “I told you I don’t know where they are.”

“But now you’ve seen my face and how we operate. I can’t just let you go, Red—Hux.”

Hux’s brows slot towards one another with his growing concern, struggling to keep his features settled into some semblance of calm. “What would I tell anyone? You camp in the woods? You have multiple vehicles? Do you realize how many people that applies—”

“That we’re not cannibals.”

Hux pauses, sputters as his mind races to catch up. “ _That_ is what you’re trying to protect?”

“It’s a secret that has kept us safe for the last year. I won’t have that ruined.”

The last year? But this whole thing started two years ago, Hux used to mark the days in an expired calendar. That means the Knights were more recently formed. Where had they been—

“You’re either coming with us or I’ll put a bullet in your head. And I really don’t want to do that. It’s a nice head.”

Hux is startled to find himself considering the options he’s being given. When everything first went down, many chose suicide as a way to deal with it. The world had quite literally turned into a living nightmare overnight with no end in the foreseeable future. What was the point? But Hux had still believed devoutly enough in science, in the possibility of a cure, to keep fighting through each day.

Now, in the hands of a group of murderous thugs, his outlook is decidedly more grim.

But, still…

“Fine. I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading the beginning of this AU! I’ve had it in my head for months now and I’m so happy to finally start sharing it. 
> 
> Parts of the fic were inspired by The Walking Dead TV series, such as Hux’s idea to lead the walkers away in the car, and the Knights are based loosely on the Wolves. It’s been a ton of fun drawing parallels to a show I love so much, and there will be lots more references in the future~ 
> 
> And, just a note moving forward, though there were mentions of it in this first chapter, this fic will contain no graphic violence, cannibalism, or sexual assault. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter, Hux was kidnapped by a group of masked men known as the Knights of Ren, feared in the territory for rumors of cannibalism and violence. Their leader demanded Hux tell him where to find his well-stocked group, but Hux refused and is now being brought along on the wild goose chase he set into motion.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you [kyluxtrashcompactor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyluxtrashcompactor) for the beta~

They had traveled well into the night, the single beam headlamps of the motorcycles illuminating the abandoned road in front of them in narrow strips of yellowed light. The ride was peaceful in a way that was eerie and unsettling these days, quiet except for the mechanical rumbling of the bikes, the crisp air scented with fresh pine. Hux even involuntarily took comfort in the warmth of Kylo Ren seated in front of him, his arms looped around the leader's firm waist and hands bound in front to remove the temptation of throwing himself onto the asphalt.

The Knights exchanged no words but moved in sync, following Ren's lead unquestioningly as they drove down bumpy country roads that hadn't seen any sort of maintenance long before the apocalypse turned their world on end.

They eventually pulled to a stop in a clearing.

Hux squints into the darkness from where he’s been sat on the ground, out of the way as the Knights unpack their gear. They’re just off a main highway from what he can tell, the dense trees giving way to a clear patch of land covered in dry grass which is where they’re apparently setting up camp. “Why here?” he boldly questions when Ren steps near to set down a deconstructed fluorescent orange tent. “We’re out in the open. Anyone could see us.”

Ren kneels before him, the moon catching his grin and turning it psychotic. “Exactly.” He extends a sinewy forearm to point into the distance.

He hadn’t seen it before, but, with the guidance, Hux catches a chain link perimeter fence looming up in the dark, razor wire looping viciously around the top. “A prison?” he hazards a guess.

“You said your people would choose somewhere secure.”

More shapes take form as Hux’s eyes adjust to the dark: the cold, concrete compound, the maze of fencing whose purpose has shifted from keeping prisoners in to keeping aggressors out, various lengths of rope and twine stitching the fence together here and there in places it had been damaged. Directly on the other side are neat rows of crops, difficult to discern in the dark, but it looks like sprouting corn stalks, possibly the vines of tomato plants, flowering pumpkins. There are vehicles—none he recognizes—in a line along the main gravel path leading from the locked up, towering gate to the courtyard of the prison where there appears to be a recreational area set up with umbrellas to protect from the sun.

This is an established stronghold, something that has taken months—if not the entirety of the last two years—to curate just so. Did Ren really think his people had done this in a matter of hours?

"I did say that, yes," Hux replies slowly, careful to keep his tone and expression neutral lest Ren pick up on the truth: this is not the group he's seeking.

"This looks secure to me."

"It does."

"So let them see that we're here. They'll think carefully about their options and hopefully there won't be cause for bloodshed. I told you I won't hurt them if they cooperate with us." Ren lays a hand on Hux's thigh, giving it a squeeze that lingers a moment or two too long, before pushing back to his feet to continue their set up.

Hux's eyes return to the prison, watching with cool indifference the smallest light flickering in one of the guard towers.

Better them than his own people.

He watches from a distance as the Knights' tents are erected in the same circle they had been earlier, one of them igniting a fire at the center within a ring of smooth stones. He uses a match, a curious thing— matches are wasteful and too hard to keep with downpours being a common occurrence this time of year. But Hux's train of thought is interrupted when another—the one in the doll mask—lumbers awkwardly towards him, hands clasped before him in a gesture that reads as discordantly shy and innocent.

"Yes? What is it?" he snaps when the Knight does nothing but stand tall before him, unblinking through the slits in the mask.

"Supreme Leader would like you to come have dinner with us." It isn't a question and before Hux can even think to protest, the Knight is leaning down to wrap a strong hand about his skinny bicep, pulling him to his feet with what Hux thinks is an attempt to be gentle. He is led to a bucket that has been upturned beside the fire to act as a makeshift seat—the only one, he realizes, as he sits upon it as gracefully as he is able with his hands still bound before him.

He glances suspiciously around at the assembled figures, still not convinced he isn't about to become the main course, when he feels a heavy hand weaving through his too-long hair. He starts and jerks forward, whipping about to glare at the doll-masked Knight who somehow manages to look sheepish even with his face concealed.

"They like your hair," Ren explains, too amused for Hux's liking, as he sits heavily beside him on the ground, a tin plate in each hand. They’re laden with what looks like spaghetti and mushy orange slices that were ladled from a can if their too-bright hue is any indication. "They think you're pretty."

"Am I supposed to be flattered by that knowledge?" Hux hates the way he can feel the tips of his ears burning with his embarrassment.

Ren bobs a broad shoulder in a shrug. "If I untie your hands, promise not to run?"

Hux wants to spit in his face, to declare he'll make no such promises, but he isn't stupid and has seen the guns they each carry. He wouldn't make it five feet. "You know the answer to that already," he responds as haughtily as he can manage, tipping his nose a little higher into the air.

Ren grins that lopsided smirk that makes Hux feel as if he's about to be devoured whole, and pulls a switchblade from his back pocket.

He saws at the rope with the knife that should have been able to cut through it with a couple of carefully angled slashes, but instead it appears to be rather on the dull side. Did they not keep up their gear? Hux had seen holes littering their backpacks and clothes but had written that off as aesthetics. Unkempt gear, impractical supplies...

"Here." Ren hands one of the plates over once the rope had been cut away, frayed to a point of no longer being useful from the effort it took to remove it.

"And what is it you're serving me?" Hux recovers from his surprise quickly and pokes at a lump of grayish meat embedded in the noodles with a dinged-up silver fork. "Someone's mother? Brother? Did you have to chase them down? Did they put up a fight?"

Ren loudly slurps a noodle between his thick lips before leaning over to press them to the shell of Hux's ear, grinning against it as the contact elicits a shudder. "Chef Boyardee," he whispers the two words like they're a carefully guarded secret.

* * *

Hux sleeps in Kylo Ren's tent that night, being given the sleeping bag as the Guest of Honor while Ren rolled to the other side with a military issue blanket draped partially over his hulking form. It wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as Hux would have assumed, and it wasn't until the morning that he thought about how easily he could have made his escape. His hands hadn't been bound again after their meal, he could have straddled Ren's sleeping form and wrapped them about his throat, squeezing until the light left his eyes. So why hadn't he?

The Supreme Leader gives him a knowing smirk when Hux emerges from the tent, roused from his peaceful slumber by the sounds of activity, as if he too took note of his choice to stay.

The Knights are gearing up for the raid with weapons beyond the handgun and knife they all seemed to be equipped with. One holds a pickax, another a sledgehammer, there's a shotgun propped against a broad shoulder. They're all showy, none particularly practical—even the shotgun would be difficult to find ammo for eventually, not to mention that it's loud and overkill at a close range. He turns to say as much to Ren, eager for an instance to criticize as much as he is curious about their choices, only to see the leader of this motley crew strapping a massive sword to his own back. It's a ridiculous thing, the blade wide and nearly the length of his leg, serrated near the hilt with runes etched into the flat of it. The hilt itself is sculpted into the shape of a ram's skull, the creature's horns making up the blade guard with sharp curves beneath. The hilt is bound in synthetic black leather, bands of metal embellished with plastic jewels holding it together. It looks for all the world like something out of a fantasy novel with little to no real life practicality. These are the feared Knights of Ren?

"I didn't realize this was the Battle of the Pelennor Fields."

"Wrong series. This is Frostmourne, blade of Arthas the Lich King," Ren explains, reverent and solemn, a hint of offense on his face as if Hux should have already known as much.

"Ah, apologies. I left my sword in my other pants. Mind lending me a weapon?"

Ren secures the leather straps across his chest to settle the sword in place, but is looking at Hux with a confused set to his brow, corners of his lips quirked down. "Why do you need a weapon to face your own people?"

He doesn't know what they're going to face in the prison, but it isn't his group. "I suppose I don't."

The Knights don't pack up their camp, leaving everything as it was the night before. Either they are naive or they merely trust that people fear them enough to not try to steal from them. After what he's seen, Hux isn't sure which is more likely. They take only the weapons they have all equipped, and Ren reappears with his mask securely in place, concealing his face once more.

They cut through one of the patches in the fence and march up the main road, no attempts being made at subtlety or to preserve the safety of the property for their own use later on. A crowbar is used to pry open the door, and they find the front entryway empty of people but not of supplies. There is gardening equipment laid against the wall, rakes and hoes and shovels of all sizes, baskets full of seed packets, buckets, jugs of water, clippers, mismatched sets of gloves. This all must have taken an extraordinary amount of time to set up.

They head further into the prison beyond what once would have been a secure checkpoint and into the cell blocks beyond. People are waiting for them there, having been notified of their presence—possibly by walkie-talkie—by whoever was stationed in the guard tower that morning. They are all men and women looking to be in their late-twenties to early-forties, healthy and clean, standing at the ready with various weapons in hand: machetes, skinning knives, one even has a gun but the safety is on as he levels it at them—out of ammo, Hux suspects.

"My men have grown fond of your leader but we're willing to return him to you unharmed if you cooperate," Ren begins with an arrogant air to his mask-muffled voice. He pulls the sword from the sheath on his back with a metallic hiss and a dramatic flourish, making a show of tightening his thick fingers around the hilt like he's some fantastical hero-king.

"Our leader?" The man in front looks back over his shoulder at the group assembled in a disorganized jumble behind him, a confused glance passing between them.

One of the Knights presses a gloved hand to the middle of Hux's back and gives him a gentle nudge forward as if they had somehow overlooked him.

"I don't know them. This isn't my group," Hux finally announces, trying to sound at least the slightest bit surprised as if he had ever truly expected to find Phasma and the others squatting here.

Hux keeps his eyes forward, not wanting to face the fury he assumes he would find in Ren's own, letting his gaze instead sweep over the group in front of him that he, in some ways, had used as a decoy to allow his own people more time to get away. They don't look like bad folk; they've clearly worked hard to get to where they are, but they also seem as if they haven't interacted with the world outside their razor wire fence enough to know what it's like. They don't appear to know the Knights of Ren by sight, but they're naive if they think they can face off with a group that has a shotgun in its midst with only little knives and hoes and a gun with no bullets.

"In that case, drop your weapons and point us in the direction of your supplies."

The group hesitates, swaying nervously where they stand as they look between one another, like they're hoping one in their midst will be brave enough to make the first move against the intruders.

The _chakchak_ of the pump action shotgun is all the prompting they need, and they jump to follow the demand, makeshift weaponry dropping to the ground with clanks and clatters against the unfinished flooring.

"We don't have anything left," the man, presumably their leader, is quick to stammer, taking a step forward with one arm extended out at his side as if somehow that would keep his group tucked safely behind him. "We have nothing left," he repeats. "Not in here anyways. But there's a kitchen down in one of the other cell blocks, through the door behind us, that we haven't touched yet. The one up here was full of preserved food, the other is probably the same. You can have whatever you find there. There should also be a medical supply closet nearby. Take it all, it's yours."

Ren takes a step towards the man, raising his sword like he means to cut him down for not immediately bending to his whims, but Hux hurries forward to put himself between them.

"Think about what they're offering." He isn't sure why he bothers to keep his voice down; sound resonates in the concrete box of a room, and everyone is silent anyway, like they are all waiting for violence to erupt. "They don't have anything else up here. Let's take what's in the other pantry, take the first aid supplies, and leave them be. Are they really a threat to the Knights of Ren with empty guns and gardening tools?"

Suggesting that Ren might fear backlash from this pitiful lot is enough to slacken his sword arm, falling relaxed to his side as he gazes down at Hux through the smokey plastic of the mask, seeming to consider. "So we leave them here to die of starvation one by one, forced to kill each other when they turn?"

Die of starvation? They have crops flourishing near the fence line. Did Ren truly possess so little practical knowledge that he hadn't realized what was growing or what the gardening supplies in the entryway were for? The more Hux observes, the more he's amazed the giant of a man even survived the world _pre_ -apocalypse. All brawn and no brains.

"Yes, that's exactly it," Hux responds in a hissed whisper, tilting his lips in what he hopes comes across as a wicked grin. Ren doesn't seem to detect his deception, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a matching smirk, barely detectable beneath the mask, but it makes Hux breathe easy all the same.

"We'll clean the place out!" Ren announces to the Knights.

The seven stride past the prison group in a heavy footed flurry of black fabric. Hux is on their heels, but stops in his tracks and his blood runs cold when he hears the door behind them close and the scraping of the lock as it slides firmly into place.

"Ren..."

"There'll be another way out. It's cute, isn't it? That they think that door could stop us if I wanted to go back for them." Ren continues down the narrow hall, unperturbed.

The brick making up the walls on either side of them was painted a shade of white that once would have seemed sterile but now emphasizes the grime of years of neglect, the mortar between each stained with age. From his limited exposure to zombie media, Hux half expects bloodied hand prints, rotten limbs, severed heads, corpses heaped in corners. But there’s… nothing.

The place looks utterly untouched as if no one had ever occupied it to begin with. They pass an office coated in a fine layer of dust, but the chair is neatly pushed in, the bookshelves are in order, there’s even a tidy stack of papers in the corner, work that had been left for another day and never returned to again.

It doesn’t make sense. If the prison staff and the hundreds of inmates the facility could hold had been evacuated, wouldn’t there be more signs, wouldn’t there be some state of disarray? Overturned furniture, broken light fixtures, a shoe left behind, items stolen from old habits not broken. _Anything_ to show that there had been haste, panic.   

It doesn’t _make sense_. Something has to be wrong here. 

He reaches out to stop Ren as they approach another door with a guard station to one side, long dormant security cameras unseeing in the corners of the hall. "What if the rest of this place hasn't been cleared out yet? We have no way of knowing if the prisoners were released when the guards evacuated. We don’t even know that the guards _did_ evacuate. I heard stories, Ren. Stories of the military locking up buildings and leaving their occupants to die. What if that happened here and we’re walking into a trap?" He had trusted the survivors in the first cell block, urged Ren to do the same. They seemed naive and unwilling to risk the well being of their own by facing the Knights, but the echo of the lock clicking into place behind them had resounded with such finality that Hux can't shake the sinking feeling in the pit of his belly.

"You worry too much, Red."

A Knight with a crowbar steps forward to pry the lock off of the door before them and it swings open with a creak that is swallowed up by the cacophony of a hundred starved walkers—scraping feet, gnashing teeth, guttural moans. The door had attracted their attention and they turn now on the group, heading as one towards them with gnarled hands hungrily outstretched. They’re reduced to horrifying backlit silhouettes, barely visible except as a squirming mass from the light filtering through the filth-caked, barred windows of the rec room.

Ren lifts his sword and the Knights follow suit, gloved hands readying their various weapons, raising them in an offensive position.

"I left my sword in my other pants, Ren," Hux repeats the mocking phrase from earlier, except now it's lacking sarcasm and is laced thickly with apprehension. His hands grip uselessly at his hip, at his thigh, where his weapons would usually be reliably fastened and easily accessible, stripped away after he was captured.

Ren seems to weigh the time it would take to do so against the approach of the walkers, but eventually rests his sword against his shoulder to reach down into his boot with his free hand, coming back up with a hunting knife. He presses it into Hux's hands just as the Knight with the shotgun fires off the first rounds, taking out the first line of the unorganized mass.

Hux doesn't miss a beat, doesn't hesitate for an instant, before throwing himself into the fray along with his captors.

The Knights, for all their lack of other, practical knowledge, do fight well. Hux had expected to be dodging blades and stray bullets, but each attack hits its mark. He falls into rhythm with them, striking down, freeing his blade, and swinging again at the next.

There are so many but they're only coming at them from one direction, funneling from a wider rec room and into the hallway, making them manageable.

"Are we pressing on?" Hux yells over the din, nearly plastered against Ren's side as they form a sort of defensive wall. They pushed back the oncoming walkers enough to afford them a moment's respite and an opportunity to shut the door against the attack, but that would cut them off from the supplies that the man in the first cell block had spoken of.

Hux catches a brief nod, watching sweat slip down the Supreme Leader's neck from beneath the mask, concentration not broken, driving his sword up and forward through the already cracked skull of a walker. "Press forward. We'll clear the room then go back for the other survivors."

Hux knows in an instant that he doesn't mean go back to help them to safety, and is nearly startled to find that it not only doesn't bother him but that he agrees with the decision. He is no stranger to using the walkers to his advantage, and in fact he might have even done the same had he been in the position of the other survivor group, but it didn't work out the way they had anticipated and now it was only fair they face the repercussions for that.

The unintentional bottle-necking strategy makes surprisingly fast work of the rec room herd, though Hux is heaving by the end of the fight. He presses his back to the wall to remain upright as he catches his breath, eyes flicking in horror from one Knight to the next as they begin to put their weapons away into proper sheaths or other homemade attachments without first cleaning the blackened, congealed blood from the metal.

"What do you think you're doing?" he barks, not realizing until after the seven men all pause and turn to look at him, limbs frozen mid-action, that he had employed his teacher-voice. He feels his cheeks heat up, but he places his hands on his hips and does his best to glare at them. If they were that easy to cow, keeping it up could only prove to be in his best interest. "You have to wipe your weapons off first, you fools. Do you want the metal to rust?"

"It dries and flakes off eventually," the one in the politician mask tries to explain, tone lilting and whiny like a child making up excuses, though he wipes the head of his axe off on the tatters of his black jacket.

"You're damaging the steel. All of you clean them properly—now. Come on, we haven't got all day." He claps his hands to dismiss them to their task, and, just as his students had, they all scramble to do as instructed. Even Kylo Ren himself yanks a sweater off a walker at his feet and uses the rag to clean off the ridiculous length of his great sword before sliding it back into its place on his back.

Hux cleans off the knife he had borrowed and slips it into the empty sheath still at his own thigh, then heads into the rec room. There's the entrance to the mess hall attached to the back of it, the kitchen connected to that, and a medical alcove off to the side.

He wanders over to the first aid supply closet while some of the Knights dutifully continue to scrub at their weapons and others begin picking through the slain walkers for supplies they might have had on their person before turning.

The closet is still locked and a cursory tug proves fruitless. He's examining the lock to look for a way to pick it without having to search the heap of felled walkers for the guard with the key, when a shadow is cast upon the door.

"Move."

Hux looks back over his shoulder to see Ren once again holding his sword. He doesn't need to be told twice to get out of the way.

The Supreme Leader brings the blade down hard and at an angle, and the lock falls to the floor as easily as if it had never been secured in the first place.

Hux hums his gratitude, not at the point yet that he's willing to thank him in proper words, and opens the door to sort through the supplies. They are completely untouched, clean from being kept behind a locked door, likely freshly replenished right before the apocalypse hit.

"Look at all the bandages," Ren comments, awed beside him, running his dirty fingers over the neat, pristine rows of gauze and wraps.

But Hux shakes his head and picks up a box of alcohol wipes. "Bandages are convenient but take up a lot of space and get dirty easily anyways. What you want to focus on is the medication like antibiotics and painkillers, and supplies for sterilization. We can tear up clothing for bandages if need be." He pauses, the blood rushing to his cheeks again as the weight of that _we_ hits him. " _You_ can cut up clothing."

He chances a glance out of the corner of his eye, frustrated that he can't read Ren's expression beneath his cheap mask. "It can all be packed up before we go back for the other group. We can go out a side exit, leave the supplies outside, and go back in the front entrance since they locked the door to the cell block behind us. They won't be expecting it either."

Ren huffs a laugh, shoulders slumping with a posture that relaxes all at once, like somehow Hux's words were a relief to him. "You're not going to lecture me about slaughtering innocents?"

Hux bobs a thin shoulder in a shrug. "They tricked us, assuming it would lead to our deaths. They no longer fall under the protected category of innocence."

Hux plucks a box up off of the floor that had once been used to deliver supplies to the prison, beginning to fill it with necessities that won't end up just bogging them down. He takes a tube of antiseptic cream, bottles of painkillers, multivitamins, antibiotics—his hand hovers over the boxes of omega heat suppressants.

He feels Ren stand up a little straighter behind him, hears him inhale through his mouth like he's getting ready to speak, to ask questions that Hux really doesn't want to answer. Hux curls his fingers back into his palm and lets the fist fall to his side, pretending to still be scanning the remaining supplies in the closet.

He hadn't had a heat in a year. It certainly wasn't a matter of his age, so his best guess was that a combination of malnutrition and stress had stripped him of that condition. It was just as well. Scavenging for suppressants had been anxiety ridden work for that first year, a frantic, panic filled thing that he would rather not go through again anyways. It didn't make him less of an omega, he reassured himself as he did every month when he didn't feel the fevers and desperate need creep up on him.

"Why are you still hovering? There's an entire kitchen to be looted," he snaps when Ren remains frozen beside him, the tension palpable in the air.

"Don't you want to take—"

"There's no need." Hux slams the closet closed, a sign of the topic being closed for conversation that not even the Supreme Leader could miss.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [twitter @h311cat](https://twitter.com/h311cat) or on [tumblr](https://h3llcat.tumblr.com/).


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